


Odds & Ends

by smarshtastic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Tea, Umbrellas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:04:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: The thing about Aziraphale is that, for all of his airiness, he’s not actually forgetful. He has an impeccable memory and has meticulously kept tally of his and Crowley’s various miracles over the last few millennia. Which must mean that Aziraphale is leaving things behind on purpose, though for what purpose Crowley can’t fathom.---Crowley thinks the Angel is plotting something. He is wrong.





	Odds & Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/gifts).



> HELLO I've fallen into the Good Omens pit and I'm very happy here. I hope you enjoy this ♥ 
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/smarshtastic), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/mcreyes), and [tumblr](https://www.wictorwictor.tumblr.com) ♥

It starts with a book. 

Crowley notices it on his desk sometime after Aziraphale leaves but waits to ring him until the next morning. 

“You left your book here,” Crowley says. 

“Oh, I’ll just pick it up next time I drop by,” Aziraphale says in that slightly distracted way he has. 

“It might not be here next time you drop by,” Crowley says. 

“Don’t be cross, it’s just a book.” 

Crowley isn’t cross but he hangs up the phone anyway. 

The next time, Aziraphale does not take his book and he leaves behind a truly ridiculous cake stand, of all things. It’s a white porcelain affair, with delicate pastel flowers sculpted around the rim and a flowered vine twisting down the support. It looks like it came straight out of seventeenth century France, which, knowing Aziraphale, is entirely possible. It’s hideously out of place in Crowley’s sparse, underutilized kitchen. It had held a supremely delicious cake that Crowley and Aziraphale had no problem finishing between them, but is now sitting empty on the counter. Crowley isn’t entirely sure what to do with it, so he leaves it there. He doesn’t have much reason to go into the kitchen so it’s out of the way, though it does catch Crowley’s eye every time he passes by. 

Aziraphale invites himself over for tea one weekend afternoon. 

“Wouldn’t you rather go to the Savoy? Or even the Orangery?” Crowley asks incredulously. 

“I’m finding humans exhausting today,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll just pop over.” 

Crowley doesn’t even have a chance to protest - the next moment, Aziraphale is on his doorstep with a fully loaded tea tray in hand. He moves past Crowley as soon as he opens the door. 

“I remembered that you didn’t have any mugs,” Aziraphale says, already moving towards the kitchen. 

“I have one,” Crowley protests, following in Aziraphale’s wake. 

“But there are two of us,” Aziraphale says, turning back to look at Crowley with those wide eyes of his. Crowley makes a face but can’t quite bring himself to scowl. 

Aziraphale sets the tray down on Crowley’s kitchen counter. Crowley finally gets a good look at the contents of the tray: two dainty tea cups and matching saucers, with a sugar bowl and creamer as well, and a teapot that’s covered in a truly awful, lumpy tea cozy that appears to have been knit by hand, by someone who apparently had only the vaguest sense of both how to knit and what a tea cozy should look like. There’s also an assortment of scones that look positively divine. 

“Perhaps we can sit with your plants.” 

“There aren’t chairs in there,” Crowley says. Aziraphale frowns. 

“Well that’s a shame,” he says. “It would be lovely to sit with them.” 

They end up in what passes for Crowley’s sitting room - a severe, almost empty room with a sharply angled armchair and a sofa to match. Crowley sits in the armchair, balancing his saucer on his knees, while Aziraphale perches on the edge of the sofa. His eyes wander around the room as he nibbles on a scone slathered with an alarming amount of clotted cream. 

“We could’ve gone to the Dorchester,” Crowley says, feeling self-conscious. Aziraphale turns his head to look back at Crowley. He smiles and Crowley feels something go gooey inside his chest. 

“This is perfectly lovely,” Aziraphale says. “Have another scone, Crowley.” 

Aziraphale somehow leaves the tea cozy behind. 

Over the next few weeks, London endures some particularly miserable, rainy weather, and every time Aziraphale comes over, he manages to arrive with a new umbrella, which he subsequently leaves behind. Crowley has to purchase an umbrella stand to contain them all. 

“Is this new?” Aziraphale asks as he steps into the foyer during the monsoon season. (Crowley has assured Aziraphale multiple times that he has nothing to do with the unseasonably wet weather but he isn’t sure if Aziraphale believes him.) Aziraphale slides his umbrella - a large tartan number with a curved wooden handle - into the stand alongside the others. 

“Yes,” Crowley says, hoping he sounds petulant. Aziraphale smiles. 

“It’s quite nice,” he says, moving past Crowley to greet the plants. Crowley huffs at the umbrella stand before he follows after Aziraphale. 

The thing about Aziraphale is that, for all of his airiness, he’s not actually forgetful. He has an impeccable memory and has meticulously kept tally of his and Crowley’s various miracles over the last few millennia. Which must mean that Aziraphale is leaving things behind on purpose, though for what purpose Crowley can’t fathom. 

On top of that, Aziraphale seems to be spending more and more time in Crowley’s flat. Without the Head Office breathing down their necks all the time these days, they’ve found that they have quite a lot of free time between miracles. It seems natural to spend their time together - who else knows the other better? (Anyway, it’s not like they know many people socially - at least not many people they’d like to spend time with.) 

Once, an entire week goes by before Crowley realizes how long Aziraphale had been continuously staying in his flat. As a normally solitary creature, Crowley would’ve expected to be annoyed by Aziraphale’s constant presence, but found it to be quite the opposite. When Aziraphale went back to his bookstore, Crowley felt strangely lonely. He took it out on his plants, which grew several new healthy shoots in the span of one long, lonely weekend. 

The whole situation is even more confusing when Crowley finds Aziraphale’s favorite topcoat hanging in his coat closet. Crowley stares at it. Aziraphale must have left it behind when he went back to the bookshop. He knows it’s Aziraphale’s favorite because several times now Aziraphale has attempted to buy a new topcoat to replace it, only to lament that they don’t make them like they used to - to which Crowley has responded with various referrals to various tailors, each of them unsuccessful. At some point, Crowley gave up trying to reason with Aziraphale - there were only so many times Crowley could hear him sigh and murmur, “It’s just not the same.” The coat is in impeccable condition. Quite frankly, Crowley isn’t entirely certain it’s ever been out of Aziraphale’s sight in the last hundred years or so. 

The right thing to do would be to call Aziraphale and tell him he must have made a mistake leaving the coat at Crowley’s, that he should come pick it up. But Crowley is a demon, still, technically, and doing the right thing doesn’t sit entirely well with him, so he does not call Aziraphale. Besides, he’s curious. Over the course of a few days, Crowley keeps checking the closet to see if the coat is still there. Sometimes he sneaks up on the closet and throws open the door with a “HA!”, as if he might catch the coat off guard. But the coat hangs there quite inanimately, and Aziraphale hasn’t come knocking frantically, so Crowley lets it continue to hang there, even as his paranoia grows. 

Crowley isn’t quite sure why he feels so paranoid about this turn of events, so he spends some time performing some small miracles in Parliament which ultimately results in a scuffle on the floor of the House of Lords over a perceived slight against someone’s mother. 

It doesn’t really make Crowley feel any better, but it was a nice distraction while it lasted. 

The next time Aziraphale comes over, it’s entirely unannounced. Crowley tries to hide his surprise when Aziraphale peeks around the enormous leafy plant he’s holding in his arms. 

“I was wandering in the flower market when I saw this lovely specimen, and I thought you might like to add it to your collection,” Aziraphale says, positively beaming. 

“My collection?” Crowley echoes faintly. Aziraphale bobs his head. 

“You have such a way with plants, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “The woman running the shop said this one tends to be a bit finicky, but I assured her you were an expert.” 

Crowley blinks. The silence stretches on long enough so that Aziraphale’s smile falls a notch. Crowley shakes himself out of it. 

“You’d better bring it in, then,” Crowley says finally. Aziraphale’s smile perks back up. Crowley stands aside to let Aziraphale through the door. He pokes his head outside and glances both ways down the street, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone lurking. When he closes the door, Aziraphale’s voice is floating back to Crowley from the direction of his plant room. Crowley follows the sound. 

“...a pair of chaises that would look very nice tucked among all this greenery,” Aziraphale is saying. “You ought to come see them. They’re handcrafted in _Maine_ , I believe. America! The wood is quite stunning.” 

Crowley stops in the doorway to the plant room and watches Aziraphale gently shift his plants around, making room for the new addition. While normally Crowley would be incredibly overprotective of his plants, he doesn’t feel the need to intervene at all. He watches Aziraphale’s hands as he rearranges the collection - his pale fingers stroke a broad leaf absently and Crowley must be imagining the shiver that runs through the plant. He swallows thickly. 

“There!” Aziraphale says. “Right at home.” 

Crowley finally notices the pot that Aziraphale has selected for the plant; the plant appears to be sprouting whimsically from the back of a very large frog. 

“A frog, Aziraphale?” Crowley says. Aziraphale half turns to look back at the planter. 

“I thought it was charming,” Aziraphale says. He sounds so earnest. His eyes go round and wide when he turns back to Crowley. Something twists in Crowley’s chest. 

“You left your topcoat here,” Crowley says. 

“Oh, did I?” Aziraphale says. 

“It’s hanging in the closet.” 

“How lucky,” Aziraphale says, apparently unaffected by this revelation. “I was getting a bit of a chill. I’m feeling a bit peckish, shall we get something to eat?” 

“You keep leaving things here,” Crowley says suddenly, surprising himself. Aziraphale blinks. 

“Apologies, I didn’t -” 

“First it was a book, then that monstrous cake stand, and a tea cozy, of all things - what am I to do with a tea cozy?” 

“Well, you didn't have one…” Aziraphale says weakly. Crowley advances on him. Aziraphale shuffles backwards. 

“Half a dozen umbrellas!” 

“They’re so easy to leave behind -” 

“And your coat - your _favorite_ topcoat! You haven’t let that thing out of your sight since old whatshisname died in 1894!” 

“I’m not really certain -” 

“What are you plotting, Angel?” Crowley asks, now nearly nose to nose with Aziraphale, whose back is pressed against the wall. 

“Plotting?” Aziraphale splutters. 

“Yes, _plotting_ ,” Crowley says. A look passes over Aziraphale’s face. 

“After all this time - Don’t you trust me?” Aziraphale asks, an unmistakable note of hurt in his voice. Crowley swallows, suddenly very aware of the lack of space between them. He takes a half-step back. 

“Of course I trust you,” Crowley says, trying to sound dismissive. 

“Is it so offensive that I leave a few of my things here?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, whose cheeks are slowly reddening. “We spend so much time together and, ah, I thought it might be, well, convenient if…” 

Aziraphale trails off, leaving the thought unfinished. He looks down at his feet. 

“The plant?” Crowley asks. 

“It reminded me of you,” Aziraphale says, peeking back up at Crowley without lifting his chin. “I thought you’d like it.” 

Crowley attempts to process this information. 

“You want to leave things here,” Crowley says slowly. Aziraphale gives him a little nod. 

“I thought - after everything - and we’ve known each other for so long -” 

“What about the bookstore?” 

“Well, I still have it, obviously,” Aziraphale says, the color darkening his cheeks again. He hesitates, shuffling in place. “But I, ah. Would like to spend more time with you.” 

“Oh.” Crowley nods as if he understands although he doesn’t, not at all. 

“Am I… am I wrong in thinking that you enjoy our time together?” Aziraphale asks. 

“What? No. Don’t be stupid, Angel.” 

“Well!” Aziraphale huffs, clearly flustered. Suddenly, something clicks in Crowley’s head. It seems absurd, though, so he proceeds with caution. 

“Do you think I would’ve put up with you for six thousand years if I didn’t?” 

“You were just doing your job?” Aziraphale suggests. Crowley waves a hand dismissively. 

“You ought to know by now that I’m not _that_ dedicated to my job.” 

“Perhaps.” 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale for a long moment: his white-blond curls, his nearly invisible eyelashes, his enormous, painfully earnest eyes. His features are so familiar to Crowley, as they should be, after over six thousand years working at odds with each other. But there’s something else there, too, something which Crowley hasn’t allowed himself to think about for ages - something about which Crowley gave up hope sometime during the last few centuries. 

So much has changed since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. And yet so many other things have remained the same. 

“Aziraphale, I’ve been flirting with you for _millennia_ ,” Crowley says. Aziraphale looks taken aback. 

“P-pardon?” 

“I’ve been _flirting with you_ , you completely useless, clueless, hopeless Angel,” Crowley says. “For thousands of years!” 

“You - you never said anything!” 

“What would I have said? We worked for opposing sides. Anyway, I thought it was obvious.” 

“Obvious!” 

“You can’t possibly be that thick,” Crowley says. Aziraphale frowns slightly. Crowley rolls his eyes and steps in close. Aziraphale backs up again, pressing his back against the wall. “Why now?” 

“After everything…” Aziraphale starts to say then trails off. His eyes dart up to meet Crowley’s, then he casts his gaze down and away again. “It’s different now, isn’t it? In the time leading up to the not-Apocalypse, I thought about having to spend eternity without you, if my side won - but there aren’t sides now. Or, _we_ don’t have sides. But we still have eternity and - well. It would be awfully long if I couldn’t spend it with you.” 

Crowley doesn’t know what to say so he kisses Aziraphale instead. Aziraphale makes a surprised noise, his eyes wide as Crowley kisses him. Crowley squeezes his eyes closed and takes Aziraphale by the shoulders. He feels Aziraphale tense slightly, and then all of a sudden he melts. One of Aziraphale’s hands comes up, tentatively, and touches Crowley’s hip. 

“You - stupid - Angel -” Crowley says, punctuating each word with a kiss. Aziraphale huffs out a breathless laugh. He tries to kiss Crowley back, but he’s either very bad at this or very out of practice. Crowley doesn’t care. 

“You never said anything,” Aziraphale says plaintively as Crowley finally draws away. 

“I didn’t think I had to,” Crowley says. 

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs, scrunching up his nose a little. “There was quite a lot going on.” 

“Not anymore,” Crowley says. 

“No, not anymore,” Aziraphale agrees. Crowley is still gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders, as if to keep him from running away. He loosens his grip and then, after a moment of hesitation, moves one hand up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed and he leans his cheek into Crowley’s palm as if he had been waiting for that for thousands of years. Perhaps he had. 

“I suppose you ought to bring some more things over,” Crowley says. Aziraphale reopens his eyes. 

“Oh?” 

“I won’t have this place cluttered like your bookshop, though,” Crowley says. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale says. “Just a few things. To make it homey.” 

“I suppose I can live with that,” Crowley says, even though he knows that he’ll never be able to say no to Aziraphale, particularly not when he’s beaming at him like that. Aziraphale closes the gap between them and kisses Crowley again. It’s not nearly as bad this time. And, besides, Crowley thinks fleetingly, they have an eternity to keep practicing. 


End file.
